The Offspring.

Once upon a while back, in the Deep South somewhere between the far most eastern surf of South Carolina and the most western borderline of Mississippi, was a thin man.
A thin man whose sole ambition in life was to trod the ends of the globe and rail as many souls as he could. With an Adam's apple the size of a bent knuckle, a receding hairline and a never ending case of the sniffles, souls a plenty he would rail.
At the other end of the never ending graveled road, a pink skinned, triple chinned mother and a denture wearing, wiry man of a father continued to bicker, mostly in public more than anywhere else, about whose side of the family was responsible for this particular crude 52 year old ogre of a son.
"Why, he's as freakishly bow-legged as your father was..." the four feet, ten inch woman snapped.
"...and he hates himself for it!" Tilting her head back she inhaled the last wash of her light beer.  Flexing her knees slightly outward, the ornery mother aligned the empty aluminum can horizontally between the inside of both knees and with a hefty grunt, she pressed both knees inward crushing the can into a miniature aluminum accordion. A bellowing burp was followed by her barrelled size forearm swiping across her crackling lips as she mumbled loudly enough to be heard, "It's your family to blame here. Not mine!"
The husband while stringy and with a natural quiver about him, loomed heavy in pride. With one hand rolled in a clenched fist piercing the air over his balding head, he retorted aiming a bent, bony finger at his stocky, pouting wife.
“Why you miserable, sloth-toed, hog-fondling heifer! If it weren’t for all the over-the-shoulder knitting lessons you forced upon him when he should’a been outside amongst the foliage and the woodlands...” he stormed angrily, “…and the endless evenings of reading to him from your personal diary of new wart growths, why...why...he’d be as happy as your father  at the downtown cabaret!” His hooked nose aiming down towards her perspiring forehead as she returned his glare by sneering up at him with burrowed brows, while popping the top back to another generic brand can of light beer. The excessive skin beneath her upper arms rolling and swaying like a doughy pendulum as she pulled the ring back and off.

Meanwhile at a state fair two time zones away, a bow-legged middle-aged man flings yet another egg from within the bushes located just on the other side of the carnivals fence-line. He ducks and recoils, eyes wide open, shifting from side to side. Placing an open palmed hand against his chest, he catches his breath,  mumbling whispers of assurance to himself that none of the yolk-drenched Ferris wheel riders spotted him from above.